My Other Me
by Atem no koibito
Summary: Yugi Moto is known across the world as the greatest duelist there is. But in reality, he didn't get to the top all by himself. He had a special someone by his side who helped him to achieve all of his dreams. This was the truth, and he couldn't go on pretending that he did it all alone. He had to tell people about this. So sitting down, Yugi comes up with a way to do just that.


**Hello my awesome readers! I have another story for yoooouuu! Hope you all like it!**

 **Enjoy! :)**

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My Other Me

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They'll raise the questions, and I'll kill the answers. Why? To be honest I'm just afraid that when they raise the questions, they'll kill the answers since they don't understand. Maybe it's because I don't want them to know the truth since it sounds absolutely unbelievable. Then, why do I still try to explain it to people? I just make myself look stupid. I can't explain it to people without them thinking I have lost my mind.

 _"Yugi, is the character talking to a person? Because when I read it, it sounds that way since there's a 'he'. Who's he talking to? I'm so confused!"_

 _"Huh? What- no! It's not a person. He's- the character is talking to his dream. A thing. Ah... Ah… It's…!"_

" _What is it?"_

 _A sigh. "It's nothing."_

I face palm myself and shake my head sadly as the memory from earlier today resurfaced. I just can't pity myself more than this. The bed creaks under my weight as I glance at the crumpled paper with my failed, half-written story scrawled on it. What the hell was that? Stupid. Why couldn't I have just admitted that it was a person? Why did I lie? If I had explained the truth, it would have saved me from the weird look I got right after I tried to explain my lie to my friend. I'm so dumb.

Stupid Professor. Why? Why make me write a story? I didn't want to write a story, and now that I have an idea, I can't even get it down right. I sigh, putting my face into my hands, defeated. What will people think? What will they say? This is something that I've been unable to tell anyone else other than those who were there with me to witness it themselves three years ago. Why do I still want to let people know even though I'm afraid of what they will think? Why?

"Such a simple question, and you're worrying about it?"

Instantly I was snapped back to reality when I heard a voice. Looking around, my eyes fell on the edge of the bed where he sat, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. I acknowledge him for a quick second before turning back to my work.

"You don't understand," I mumble, glancing at the papers. "I can't find words to explain it."

"So instead of sitting down and finding the words, you choose to lie?" he asks next. I turn around to then see him facing the floor, shoulders slouched and arms in his lap. It was a pose I knew all too well.

"Yes," I admit softly.

"Why?"

My heart begins to beat quickly by the question, my mind buzzing with thoughts that I couldn't make sense of. Confusion begins to cloud my mind, and I explode out of frustration, guilt, and self-hate for my incompetence to explain myself.

"I don't know! I don't know why. I- I just can't." I breathe heavily, looking into his calm, purple eyes. "It's- you're not someone I can just go around talking to people about." Taking a frustrated deep breath, I let it out slowly and blinked, staring at the bed. "Trust me, I tried. In the end I only sound like an idiot. They won't believe me."

"Then, why are you still trying to explain it?" I look up to see him holding the edge of the bed. "Why don't you write those stories about me as a different character, like you usually do," he says quietly, his eyes locked on the crumpled papers I had threw on the ground.

"Because this time I can't."

He looks up at my response with wide, surprised eyes. "What? Why not?!"

I shrug before explaining. "I don't know. When I try to do it, I can't. I feel like I'm forced to come out and say the truth instead of continuing to hide you behind fake IDs." I bury my head in my hands for a moment before looking up at him. "Is it a sign that I should just write honestly about you? Say the truth whether people believe it or not?"

It was his turn to shrug. "I can't tell you what to do, but I can do what I do best. I can advise you. If you're having such a hard time hiding me, don't write about me. It will make things easier for you. Don't force yourself to do something you're unable to do."

My heart starts to pound against my chest as confusion and worry slams into me. He's smiling at me so calmly that it's beginning to make me feel uncomfortable. Here I am, too afraid to say who he is to me, and he's pretending to not care. I can see the hurt in his eyes. He thinks he's masking it so well, but I know the truth. He's hurt, and I'm the one who caused it. I don't want to hurt him.

"Then write about me."

Startled, I look at him. "Huh?"

He shifts and moves closer, every movement he makes soundless as he crawls over and sit across from me. I watch uneasily as he crosses his legs before looking at the book now between us. He stares at the papers on my book for a few seconds before looking up at me.

"Write about me," he repeats slowly, and this time I look at the book without a word. I know, but, how? How should I say it? He's reading my mind as if we still had the mind link. He's looking through each layer I had hidden, delving deeper into my soul and pulling out what I don't understand. I hate it when he does that. I truly do.

I hear a scoff and I look up at him with wide, worried eyes.

"Why are you overthinking it? It's not that hard? Just write. Tell me about why you want people to know the truth." I watch as he laughs softly, smiling to himself for a moment before he stops and sits up properly.

"I don't know why," I whisper, looking up at him with wide eyes. "All I know is that I love to write, and that you are the reason I write. We have done so many things, gone on so many adventures, and helped so many people together. Ever since you left, I wanted to remember you somehow. So, I started to write about the things we have gone through."

I watch with trepidation as he suddenly frowns, his face holding confusion and curiosity. He was so silent to the point it began to unnerve me. Finally he looks up at me carefully and steadily, holding my gaze with his.

"Then, what's the problem?"

I clench my eyes tightly at the question. Opening them slowly, I gulp and lock gazes with him. "People tell me I write amazingly. They say I have talent," I answer. He remains silent, listening carefully. "They say that I have so many great ideas, but they don't know the reason behind it all. They don't know about you!" I drop my eyes to stare at the pages in front of me again, feeling tears well up in my eyes.

"They don't know about my inspiration," I end off sadly. "They don't know of you, other me."

He leans forward, bracing himself with his arms to look at me. "Then tell them about me. Tell them about the other you who inspires you to write."

Looking back up at him, tears fall from my eyes and I wipe them away hastily. "You're my best friend." I sniffle, continuing. "You're very kind, and very caring. You love your family more than anything in the world. You cherish your close friends, and you're always there to support those close to you. You put your loved ones before yourself, and you would give up and go through anything for those you care about because that's just who you are."

"Yugi…" I hear him say sadly, and I feel a hand brush past my shoulder.

"You protected me. You gave me friends and you gave me hope. You fulfilled my biggest wish, and turned a nothing like me who had nothing into something. My life was dark, and very lonely. But one day you showed up and made it bright as ever."

I smile to myself, my tears clearing up. "Even though you're not here anymore, you taught me so many things. Every time you met someone, you changed them for the better in some way."

"No Yugi, we did it together," he insists, and I shake my head with a smile.

"No. Without you, I wouldn't have had the guts to do any of that. You supported me and became my role model. You became someone I wanted to be like. That's why today, I try to do the same. And, you're not perfect. I'm not perfect. We all make mistakes, but only the strong ones learn something from their mistakes and move on. You do that, and you try your hardest to do better in the future. You always try your best to be the best that you can be. That's what I love about you."

"Like I said, Yami. Without you, I wouldn't be who I am today. You have impacted my life in such a big way that it would be unfair to give you no credit for my success. I want to at least acknowledge you. I want people to know that there's someone who made me who I am today. Not just as the King of Games, but Yugi Moto, the university student." I look up at him to see his caring face. "I want to tell everyone about you."

Only when those words left my mouth did I understand why I was having this problem in the first place. Every time I tried telling people about him, they thought I was crazy. They would never believe that my life and myself is the way it is because of a Pharaoh who died saving the world five thousand years ago from an evil God who was trying to plunge the world into utter darkness and chaos.

I sigh, closing my eyes tightly. I know who he is, and I understand what he means to me. But, if I write about him, do I have enough guts to hand this story over to someone? What would other people think? I don't want them to laugh. I don't care if they laugh at me, but they'll laugh at my story. They'll laugh at him, and that is something I will never be able to forgive myself for.

"What other people think? You're really concerned about what others would think?"

I snap my head up at the angry tone to see him staring fiercely at me, his hands gripping the bed tightly.

"Why are you so afraid? What's the worst that could happen when you say that there was someone in your life that made you who you are today? What?" he demands, staring at me, and I shake my head seeing that he was misunderstanding me.

"No, Yami. I didn't mean it like that. There's nothing wrong with it-"

"Then why are you so afraid? You want to write about me, don't you?" he asks, and I nod. "Then write. Who says that it has to be true?"

"I want it to be true!" I exclaim.

"The readers don't have to know that it's true, do they?" he asks with an amused glint in his eyes, and at that I had to stop and think.

Of course. The answer was there in front of me this entire time, but I was too disorganized to sit down and think it through properly. I'm writing a story. It didn't matter if it was fiction or non-fiction. I want to write a non-fiction, but to others it will seem like a fictional story. They would never believe that it is real, but I will know the truth. I can say this truth without having people think that I'm crazy by allowing them to believe that it's fiction!

Grinning, I look up with a smile on my face to thank Yami for his brilliant thought, only to see the spot where he was sitting, empty. My grin drops from my face, turning into a sad, small one. See. He helps me, and then leaves like usual. Turning to my paper, I pick up my pencil and twirl it between my fingers.

 _Thank you, Yami_. But, what should the title of my story be? It's about a boy trying to tell people about his other self who helped him to learn, grow, and understand that good things can happen with a lot of belief. What should the title of such a story be?

Tapping the pencil against my puffed cheek, I stop as an idea hits me. Immediately I write it down, happy with it. It's absolutely perfect for this story.

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Ignoring the drumming sound my heart was making in my chest, I walked up to my English professor as bravely as I could. I clutch the sheets of printed paper in my hand tight enough without causing them to crinkle as each step took me closer and closer towards my goal. There was no turning back now.

I've never felt so determined and so scared in my life. Today I was going to tell my story. It is a true story, and it didn't matter to me if they believe it or not. I know that it's the true story. I'm going to tell them the real story. It will be up to them to believe it or not. To me, I said the truth and that was all that mattered.

"Ah, Mr. Moto. What can I do for you?" the prof asks, looking at me as he flips through a pile of papers on his desk.

I gulp before speaking. "I brought my short story assignment," and I watch as he looks up, looking at me for a few seconds before nodding and taking it from me.

"Good. I was waiting for you to hand it in," he says, glancing at the cover page and began flipping through the rest of the pages. I stand there, waiting to see if he would say anything else. I watch as he nods some more, skimming over a few lines.

"What's the title of your story?" he asks, staring at a paragraph of my story intently. This is it. Steeling myself to keep all my scared nerves in, I answer proudly with a small smile on my lips.

"It's called, _My Other Me_."

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 **So, review? Please? With a cherry on top? Two cherries? Okay! I'll give you the entire box! Sheesh, people these days asking for so much. XD I joke.**

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